


Pride and Prejudice: Water is Sweeter

by HQ_Wingster



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Zombie Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/pseuds/HQ_Wingster
Summary: “All rise for the honorable judge.” Everyone stood up. Mila stood a little straighter while Sara hid in the shadows, finger to her lips. Catching Mila’s eye, the judge gestured for everyone to sit back down. The shuffling of chairs weren’t enough to conceal the convict’s struggles as he yanked at his iron-clad chains.“Quiet!” A hammer shattered the convict’s shoulder and his muffled agony silenced the court. Even the children, up on their tippy toes to see the writhing convict, didn’t avert their eyes. They soaked up the violence like a rag, and Sara shook her head, wondering why in Heaven would a parent let their children into a court case like this. Sara jerked her hand away from Mila’s approaching one, but Mila shot Sara a glance and smile and held her hand. Rubbing her thumb over the back of Sara’s hand, Mila let Sara tighten her grip as the potato sack was yanked off the convict.





	

    On an afternoon much like this, the town was a boiling cauldron of fervor and notion. Maidens swayed back and forth like bubbles across a ghastly soup while men bore in their arms their children, their wives’ children, and their sisters and brothers’ children. Every child was brought across the town square to the courtroom, biscuits and little toy swords in their hands. Merchant carts were bought off as civilians browsed through the musty potions from the local apothecary. Church bells rang, teeny babies wailed, and fabrics from every cut and class filed to the town’s courtroom in droves, an army.

Riding into the quaint town by horse were the hunters. Strong by trade, the lead rider didn’t have to wrestle her humble steed to submission. No, the beast followed her every which and whim, marching into a halt as his lead and her mate hopped off and proceeded into the courtroom. Swishing gowns with crossbows upon their arms, the chandelier hanging above the center of the court grew bright with a flame as the hunters made their entrance. Huntress Babicheva and Huntress Crispino took their place by a court corner, eyeing the guilty’s chair with a mad glint in their eyes.

The standard usual. Watch an undead or a half-turned plead their case, listen to the tearful account of a witness, the jury votes the guilty as guilty, and Mila and Sara take turns taking shots behind the courtroom, away from prying eyes. Enough privacy to let the guilty pass on in some way before the Earth dealt her punishment. Sara was the more sympathetic of the duo, always averting her eyes when she took the kill. She only loaded her crossbow with three arrows. Three chances to make a kill. Sometimes, she couldn’t bring herself to aim properly as the undead of half-turned tried to plead their case one last time.

Suddenly, they would fall silent. An arrow shot at the base of their neck, the pointed end saying a greeting to the other side. Arrow to the hand that was trying to pull the other arrow out. Kick to the chest while the skull shattered under an iron-tipped boot. Mila would rub her booth deeper and deeper into the guilty’s flesh before unsheathing a knife from under her garments. In such loving detail that could be equated to a poet or an artist, Mila took her sweet time leaving her mark while Sara was already gone. Gone and in front of the courtroom, trying to catch her breath before scrubbing her hands raw in a bucket that a pub owner donated for her cause.

In that courtroom on that afternoon, Sara fiddled with an arrow with her thumb while Mila looked onwards, trying to catch a glimpse of the guilty that was entering the court. Surrounded by riots and raised tools, all Mila could catch a glimpse of was the potato sack that covered the convict's head. Better than the last convict who had an axe straight down his forehead. Teasing her leaning wall with her hidden knife, Mila snapped her fingers and Sara looked up.

The court was ready, the judge seated at his throne with a slab of rotten meat laid across his study.

“All rise for the honorable judge.” Everyone stood up. Mila stood a little straighter while Sara hid in the shadows, finger to her lips. Catching Mila’s eye, the judge gestured for everyone to sit back down. The shuffling of chairs weren’t enough to conceal the convict’s struggles as he yanked at his iron-clad chains.

“Quiet!” A hammer shattered the convict’s shoulder and his muffled agony silenced the court. Even the children, up on their tippy toes to see the writhing convict, didn’t avert their eyes. They soaked up the violence like a rag, and Sara shook her head, wondering why in Heaven would a parent let their children into a court case like this. Sara jerked her hand away from Mila’s approaching one, but Mila shot Sara a glance and smile and held her hand. Rubbing her thumb over the back of Sara’s hand, Mila let Sara tighten her grip as the potato sack was yanked off the convict.

Mila bit her bottom lip as Sara’s nails dug into her flesh. Seated at the center of the court upon a rickety pedestal was Michele Crispino, Sara’s twin brother. Eyes sunken and bloodshot against the fury of lights and glints from beating weapons, Michele threw his shoulder back in place. The cracking of bones and sliding of half-decayed flesh and muscle produced a sickening sound that one would only hear at a butcher’s stand as the master ripped open a pig’s ribcage. Mothers looked away, but maidens held a burning stare on Michele. Fathers covered their children’s eyes, but bachelors pointed their tools of the trade threateningly at Michele as the half-turned dug the dirt out from under his nails.

Sagging cheeks, sagging skin littered with gray spots, thinning wisps of hair, petrified fingers along a sagging baggage of meat and skin that threatened to fall right off the bone. Even Mila has to avert her eyes from Michele for just a moment to cleanse her sight. Beside her, Sara trembled as tears spilled down her cheeks. She couldn’t say anything, and she wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to say anything. Her only job was to be the executioner,  _ not a sister and a friend whose world was left in dismay.  _ Mila squeezed Sara’s hand.

“Name?”

_ “Michele Crispino,”  _ he mumbled. Michele tugged his restraints, the chains jingled freely like a bell.

“Speak up.”

_ “Michele Crispino, local vegetable farmer from the edge of the town. I cart in turnips, wheat, and corn every other week to the square. I cart back flowers, seeds, and my weight in coins once a month. Happy?”  _ Michele spat over his shoulder. Immediately, a crowd of people moved away from the spot where the spit had landed. Michele threw his hands up into the air,  _ quite literally if he was fast enough.  _ “What crime did I do to deserve this punishment? You know me.  _ You all do!” _

The judge hammered his palm onto his study, but it was just a mere echo as a riot circled Michele and stabbed him with tools and knives. Michele wrestled out of his seat to block the weapons, but his keepers pulled on his chains and Michele fell back into his seat. Children threw their toy swords and dirt, parents uttered every harsh word that no child or friend need not hear, and every bachelor whether male or female cursed the very spot Michele sat and would’ve spat on him. Just as one woman reared her head back to shoot her disgust, an arrow shot right past her and smashed into a standing column on the other side of the courtroom with a low thud.

The echo was the only sound that resonated in the room. Lowering her crossbow, Sara handed her weapon to Mila before stepping into the light. Michele’s immediately grew lively. His eyes had the same distinct shine like his sister, and his strength grew to that of a pig wrestler’s.

“Sara!”

His keepers pulled on the restraints, but their heels dragged across the floor as Michele pushed forward.

_ “Mickey…”  _ In any other situation, Sara would’ve tore across the room and embraced her brother. In any other situation, Michele could’ve easily ripped his restraints to pieces to just hold his fair sister. Life was a cruel mistress, and she cracked her whip just as the siblings made eye-contact. Sara was a hunter, and MIchele was a convicted half-turned. Sara broke her only rule. She stepped back, but Michele kept stepping forward. His strength left him. The dullness in his eyes conquered what little light they had. The restraints dragged him back, but Michele fought forward until his back touched the splinters of his seat and he was laid to rest.

_ “Sara, you have to believe me.” _ Michele’s voice barely rose above a whisper.  _ “I would never hurt anybody.” _

_ “Sara, he’s a half-turned,” _ Mila muttered.  _ “We should’ve taken him out as soon as he was bitten.” _

__ Sara shook her head. Between her twin’s soft pleads and Mila’s firm stance, what was there left to stand on in this rocking sea? The jury always concluded the undead and the half-turned as guilty. Always. But Michele was her brother, and the town had been safe for two months since Michele’s turning. What happened?

“If the convicted is done, I would like to finish this case,” the judge reminded everyone. MIchele growled, but he bit his tongue as the judge leaned back in his seat. “At this hour on the day before, a witness came to the court in need of a jury. Why is that?”

Michele shrugged, and there would’ve been another riot if Mila hadn’t glared at the audience.

“Yesterday in the afternoon, where were you?”

“I was in the square, running to the postmen to receive a letter.” Michele glanced at Sara. “A letter that my sister wrote to me a week before.”

“Is this true?”

Sara nodded. “Yes, it is true.”

“Why did you fetch the letter yesterday and not any day earlier?”

Michele rattled his chains. “I couldn’t. With all the protective measures in keeping the postmen alive, I didn’t think they would let me come in.”

“And yet, you ran into the square like a little school boy in broad daylight while tens and twenties of citizens trudged through their daily worth.”

“I’m just like everyone else. Albeit, I am a bit different but since my turning, I never once harmed anybody. I eat my daily worth of bread. I drink my water from the Goblet of Life, and its energy still courses through my veins.”

“The jury will judge your worth,” replied the judge, coolly. “Can the witness please bear her testimony?”

A chair scooted. A fragile-thing in the thinnest gown bowed before the judge and jury before taking her testimonial seat. Raking her fingers through her mousy hair, she cleared her throat. Her voice sounded like a piper’s flute, and it was such a little thing. The judge urged the witness to speak up, and she squeaked that she was trying. Mila spat over her shoulder, repulsed by what she saw. Glancing over, she saw that Sara’s eyes hardened against the witness. Her hands were still shaking, and a pulsing vein bore its mark over Sara’s skin as she squeezed the blood out of Mila’s hand.

“At around this time yesterday, I went down to the square to buy a loaf of bread for my family.” The witness’ voice was hollow and airy, enough to rattle her bones judging by all her shaking. “A small piece. Enough to last for three days if rationed well. On the way to the baker’s, I heard a horrible scream. It was the most--”

“To the point,” the judge urged.

The mousy witness squeaked her apologies and continued. “Down the alley was Mr. Crispino, and he had someone writhing in his arms. I couldn’t tell who it was. Too dark to see anything.”

“Was Mr. Crispino consuming the person’s flesh?”

“He did, Sir.” Her voice cracked. “I stood where I was, numb and paralyzed. Mr. Crispino muffled their cries for help into their body grew still and limp. And he...He…” The witness burrowed her face into her hands and sobbed. The jury looked at Michele, grimley. Michele shook his head. He tried to stand up, but his restraints kept him down.

“That’s not true,” he countered. “I was on the way to the postmen when I was ambushed and attacked by the viewing convention.” Michele turned around to meet his audience before looking back at the witness. “Whatever you saw, that was not me. I’m innocent.”

_ “I saw it all vividly!”  _ The hysteria swamped over the courtroom like a ghastly haze.  _ “You tore through flesh and bone to get a little taste to satisfy your tongue!” _

“That’s a lie!”

_ “Stop it!” _

A riot began to form again over the raising voices, and Mila sunk her forehead into her free hand. Glancing up, her eyes narrowed at the mousy witness. Clothing clung to her skin and bones, and her hair was just as thin as Michele’s. If anything, she looked more like a half-turned than Michele. Frothing questions bubbled up in Mila’s throat, but she bit her tongue as the judge hammered his palm over and over again, shouting for silence.

“Miss, do you know who Mr. Crispino killed?”

“I don’t,” she sniffed. “I was too afraid to go to the body after he ran off.”

_ “‘Ran off?’”  _ the judge repeated. “Why did he run off?”

For a moment, the witness was still as stone, but her rigid features broke as her running mouth went into loving detail of how Michele had sensed someone nearby and high-tailed it out of the scene.

“I was far away so I couldn’t see clearly, but I recognized who it was,” the witness said, confidently.

“Who was it?”

_ “Emil Nekola.”  _ As soon as the words left her lips, Michele exploded into outrage. He cursed the witness and her family. His raised voice blended with other voices, and Michele yanked against his restraints as he belted out that Emil was his friend. How could he hurt his best friend? Another riot circle. Another fight. Sara grabbed her crossbow, but the judge ordered her to not step in. It was not her place to interfere, but Sara didn’t lower her crossbow. Her hands shook terribly, and the world was falling apart at her feet.

Having enough, Mila grabbed her weapons and stepped out of the courtroom for a breath of fresh air. Kicking a rock, Mila hopped onto her horse and trotted down the deserted town roads. All was quiet and peaceful, an exact opposite of the commotion from the courtroom. Mila shook her head. She could hear the echoing voices from where she was and frankly, the whole issue was just one big headache. Even more so than usual since Sara was loosely tied into the case. She wouldn’t shoot her brother. If Sara looked away as she took out an undead, then she wouldn’t dare raise her crossbow at her own flesh and blood.

Steering her humble steed down a familiar road, Mila scratched her chin. The withering witness mentioned that she was on the way to fetch bread. By her frame alone, she shouldn’t be having kids or she gave away her portions to her children if she had any. But then, she was far too emotional. If her testimony was anything to go off, the witness was too scared, too reluctant, and far too frightened of her own words. Even before her testimony was told, her voice was barely audible. She wanted to pass on like voices in the wind. Not a hurricane, but a gentle breeze that could easily be forgotten in the great scheme of things.

Where did the woman say she was at yesterday? Walking towards the bakery when she happened to have stumble upon a crime? Mila and her horse stalked the back alleys. If Michele had truly consumed a man yesterday, evidence of flesh or blood would’ve been left behind. Other than a mixture of sewage and mud, the alley ways were free of blood and obvious signs of struggle. The mud in the way had its first footprints from Mila’s horse. Holding her crossbow close, Mila ventured a little farther to the outskirts of the town. Closer to the woods.

At the end of civilization was where the undead roamed, but Mila did see a shabby cottage at the end of a beaten dirt path. Possibly the home of the witness? Did she ever mention that she lived on the outskirts? No, but Mila assumed rightfully so. The cottage looked much like witness, even the roof had the same mousy color as the witness’ hair. Mounting off her horse, Mila knocked on the door. Nothing. Mila pulled the door back. An eerie darkness fell over her skin.

There was nothing, except for a chair with a visitor. Mila aimed her crossbow at the seated individual. Their chin rested against their chest. Their hands tied behind their back. Their feet tied to the legs of their chair. A rag wrapped hastily over their eyes. Mila stepped on a loose floorboard, and the creak lifted the head of the captive.

“I’m a hunter. Who are you?”

The captive licked his weary lips. “E-Emil, Emil Nekola.”

Mila didn’t lower her crossbow. “How long have you been here?”

“How long has it been?” Emil tried to stand up, but his restraints held him back. He feebly tried to tug himself free. “I don’t remember.”

“Where were you yesterday? In the afternoon.”

“I don’t remember,” Emil whispered. “I’m sorry, but I believe it was to the baker’s for a loaf of bread.”

A gunshot forever echoed in Mila’s mind when she busted into the courtroom, on her horse and with a weak Emil sitting behind her. The commotion that she entered into stopped abruptly. A rotten slab of meat fell from someone’s hand. Michele’s face was bleeding, but it wasn’t his blood. Sara held her crossbow, but all of her arrows were gone. The mousy witness crumbled into a heap over the courtroom floor.


End file.
